


Nobody

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kaer Morhen, Kissing, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Not Beta Read, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Vesemir (The Witcher), Winter At Kaer Morhen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: “Do you want to come with me, this year?”The question is almost lost to a blustering wind that howls outside and seems to shake the tavern’s thin walls. Jaskier looks up from his dinner, a spoonful of stew hovering in front of him.Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze, but rather looks down at the fraying tie of one of his vambraces. He picks at it. “To Kaer Morhen. It will be safer there. For you.”--Jaskier spends his first winter in Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 792





	Nobody

Questions perch on the tip of his tongue. Kaer Morhen isn’t on any maps; not that he knows of, anyway. The mountain range to the north shields the northern kingdoms from the worst of the far north and whatever weather tumbles down from those lands, but apart from that, he can’t find the keep anywhere. And that’s probably for the best.

The first mention Geralt ever makes of it is when the winds started to change. A shiver rattles through the length of Jaskier’s spine and he regards the heavy blanket of clouds in the sky with disdain. The village is still a mile’s walk away, but at least they made good time. Roach snorts, nodding her head. A rest for them a rest for her; gods only know that they all need it. His feet protest every step he takes and he adjusts, for quite possibly the millionth time, how his bag and lute case sit on his shoulders.

The walk drifts by. By the time they feel the first drop of rain, the Witcher is already leading them into the inn’s stable yard.

Geralt looks at the sky, regarding the clouds as grumpily as he regards most things. He hums, turning back to unlatching the last of Roach’s saddlebags. “I’ll be heading to Kaer Morhen soon,” he says gruffly. The inn’s stables are quiet, with the last of the patrons already huddled inside out of the cold. Jaskier stands just outside of the mare’s allotted stall, shifting his weight from foot to foot to prevent them from freezing over as he waits for the Witcher. Their rooms are already sorted, as is dinner. A woman who’s weathered her fair share of storms waved them through, promising warm stew and beds as soon as they were reading putting the horse to bed.

“Oh, good,” Jaskier nods, rubbing his hands together to try and get some feeling back into them. He really ought to invest in gloves, but the promise of a lit hearth inside of the inn will do for now. “When do we leave?”

Geralt looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You aren’t coming,” he says simply, turning back to Roach and unlatching her saddle. The mare huffs, and for a brief second, Jaskier thinks the mare might actually be laughing at him. Or at least the look on his face.

 _You aren’t coming_ is something Geralt says a lot, usually in relation to hunts and contracts. And Jaskier always comes along anyway, because even though Geralt has an almighty sour glare, he will never actually force Jaskier to stay. He’ll just be really bloody grumpy about it for days on end.

But when Jaskier meets his gaze, he recognises something different in this one.

He really _isn’t_ allowed to come along.

He manages to hold back a balk. So he sets his hands on his hips instead. “Why not?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Kaer Morhen is for Witchers. And you aren’t one.”

His face screws up at the name. Years of being the son of nobility, having the names of every holdfast within the Continent drilled into him by a tutor. And the years after that at Oxenfurt, meeting people from all walks of life, from places he dreamed of visiting one day. And not once did he ever hear of Kaer Morhen.

There are a lot of people on the Continent who like to think that they know everything there is to know about Witchers. What those people actually know are rumours peddled by scared people who know nothing, and refuse to learn anything, about people different to them. Rumours travelled with the wind and they evolved into their own monsters, distorted and vile things. Jaskier might have believed some of these rumours at the beginning, but in the few years of travelling with the Witcher, he’s set to throw each and every one of those vile rumours into the wind and let it carry them away. He’ll sing songs about the Witcher to garner favour, and to earn coin, of course. Travelling around the Continent isn’t cheap.

He’s intrigued. “What’s Kaer Morhen, anyway?” he asks, even as Geralt puts the last of Roach’s’ tack away for the night, letting the mare lie down and roll in her bed of hay. When Geralt strides for the inn, Jaskier follows. “Geralt? Geralt, stop ignoring me. I know you can hear me, Geralt. What’s Kaer Morhen? Why can’t I come?”

* * *

The first time Jaskier is invited to Kaer Morhen is when a rumour starts travelling with the changing winds that the coming winter is to be a harsh one. The Continent had a wonderful summer. Months of endless sun and harvests. Wine flowed out of Toussaint’s vineyards and celebrations seemed to be never-ending. A peasant’s saying was that if the land experienced a harsh summer, an equally harsh winter was waiting for them at the end of the year. Everything must stay in balance, and all of that. Jaskier never thought anything about it. Three seasons were spent on the road with the Witcher, weathering sun and wind and rain. And when the winds change again, carrying some sort of voice with them that Geralt listens out for, they part ways and go where they need to. Jaskier weathers his winter in Oxenfurt and Geralt goes to his castle on the mountain.

But with the gods’ apparent promise of a harsh winter, with thick snow set to clog the roads and winds whipping and lashing through each and every town and village on the Continent, the mumbled question comes.

“Do you want to come with me, this year?”

The question is almost lost to a blustering wind that howls outside and seems to shake the tavern’s thin walls. Jaskier looks up from his dinner, a spoonful of stew hovering in front of him.

Geralt doesn’t meet his gaze, but rather looks down at the fraying tie of one of his vambraces. He picks at it. “To Kaer Morhen. It will be safer there. For you.”

A piece of venison drops off of his spoon and back into his bowl. Not once, in the years they’ve travelled together, did Geralt ever extend the invitation his way. And Jaskier has asked for it. Teasingly, of course. But sometimes, when he knew that they were parting, sometimes literally as they stood on forked roads, he felt the slight pang in his chest when Geralt shrugged him off and left.

This...is new.

Jaskier manages to splutter out a response. “Uh, yeah,” he sets his spoon down, “yeah, of course.”

And that’s apparently that. After a night of rest and an early start, Jaskier rubs the last of sleep from his eyes as he stumbles on to the road with the Witcher perched on his horse. Roach’s gait is springier than usual. Maybe she knows that she’s heading home and wants to get there now? Who knows? Jaskier does watch her, though, smiling softly at how pricked her ears are and how she snorts and throws her head, desperate to pick up the pace.

 _Well, duchess_ , Jaskier thinks, sparing a quick glance up to the Witcher, _if your master wasn’t so particular about me getting on you, we could go off at a gallop and get you home sooner_.

He manages to clear a handful of roads before the question perched on his tongue slips out.

“Whatever happened to _Kaer Morhen is for Witchers. And you aren’t one_?”

Geralt just about manages to not roll his eyes. Jaskier’s impersonations of him are...questionable. “That’s the general rule,” he instead answers, keeping his eye on the road ahead. With the weather turning as harsh as it has, the roads are dreadfully quiet. A few passing merchants and their carts meet them, but they look just as glum as the rest of the Continent. A harsh winter tends the sour even the cheeriest of moods in people. He glances down at the bard. “Unless people are invited.”

 _Hmm_.

Jaskier tightens his hold on the strap of his lute case. “Well, thank you,” he says, turning his eyes back on to the road. “It’s much appreciated.”

They’re closer to the keep than he thought. The journey to the foot of the mountain takes them a week. To Jaskier’s surprise, a village sits nestled into the rocks of the mountain. A last place for Witchers to get their rest and supplies before heading up the steep trails – so Jaskier is told. The innkeep steps outside as soon as Roach lets out a small whinny. She definitely recognises home, and just how close they are to it. The lady, worn by the harsh climate here and with a long ponytail of grey hair tumbling down her back, offers Geralt a small smile. Geralt hums, halting Roach and hopping down from her.

“The boys are in the yard with a stable ready for her,” the woman says, bundling her shawl tighter around herself. Another howling wind rolls through the village. Jaskier just about manages to clamp down on a shiver. The woman notices, though. “Come lad,” she waves him forward. “We’ll get you warm and fed.”

Geralt is...different. When the Witcher joins him for a bowl of hearty stew, settled by a lit hearth, he seems lighter. The ever-present scowl on his face has smoothed out, and his eyes seem brighter. Jaskier watches him take a bowl of stew from the innkeep, offering her a small smile in thanks. _Interesting_.

Seeing all of this, it’s intimate. It’s a version of Geralt he knew existed, buried somewhere deep, deep down, but seeing it lift to the surface is odd. Jaskier struggles between lowering his gaze to his dinner, eating it in silence, and watching the Witcher.

The question came in the same year as their first kiss. The first of many, Jaskier can attest to.

Even with that, managing to deal a few cracks in the Witcher’s resolve any time he presses their lips together, or dusts a gentle kiss to the ridge of Geralt’s cheek or jaw, there is still so much hidden behind those golden eyes. And Jaskier cannot wait to unravel as much as he can.

The hike up to the keep goes as smoothly as he expected, insomuch as it doesn’t. One of the main paths is already flooded, with them having to take another. At some point, Geralt catches Jaskier by the waist and lifts him up, perching him on Roach. The amazement of finally having to sit on top of the mare meets the slight disappointment of the Witcher’s hands slipping away from him. _Oh well_ , Jaskier thinks. He has all winter.

When the keep comes into view, perched on one of the mountain’s highest peaks and towering above him, it steals Jaskier’s breath. Geralt has Roach’s reins caught, so all Jaskier has been doing is craning his neck up and around to see the landscape change in front of them. When another biting wind rushes over them, he gathers the lapels of his cloak and bundles it around himself.

Some of the walls are in a sorry state, crumbling and cascading down the slopes. But for all the history the keep has weathered, he’s surprised anything remains of it at all. Geralt told him some things; past battles, the last Witchers, a handful of stories about the Witchers they’ll find within the keep. But nothing too revealing just yet.

Armed with as much as Geralt felt comfortable telling him, seeing two young-looking Witchers meet him doesn’t shock him at all. If anything, their names perch on the tip of his tongue.

They embrace Geralt first. _Embrace_ being a strange word to use, as it’s more of a grapple and a fight to headlock the other. Jaskier slowly slips off of Roach’s back, giving the mare a firm pat on her neck as thanks. She only regards him with a mild form of disdain this time.

When the Witchers eventually pull away from each other, Jaskier is quickly gathered into a firm hug by one of them. Eskel, he thinks. The one with blond hair and a collection of scars marring one side of his face. The fire-haired Witcher stares at him for a moment, glowering in the same way Geralt used to do. Maybe it’s a School of the Wolf thing, he thinks, before offering the Witcher a small smile. He introduces himself, just because his mother raised him right. And while Eskel returns said smile and inflicts a colour on to Geralt’s cheeks at the mere mention of giving the bard endless stories of their youth to use for his songs, Lambert stalks off.

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind him,” he grunts, leading both the bard and Roach to some stables to the side of the keep’s courtyard. “Lambert isn’t good with people.”

“Must be a Witcher trait, then,” Jaskier offers simply, luring a small smile out of Geralt.

The horses already fed and stabled neigh and nicker at the sight of Roach. And she does the same. Even as Geralt tries to strip the last of her tack from her, she paws at the ground and stretches out to puff at a black stallion stabled next door. Jaskier tilts his head. “Who’s this?”

Geralt doesn’t even look up from his work. “Scorpion,” he replies, “Eskel’s horse.”

Jaskier makes a sound. “Do you Witchers deliberately choose horrid names for your mounts?” He settles a hand on to Roach’s neck. In the days following his first kiss with Geralt, he’s noticed that the mare has suddenly stopped trying to nip at him if he ventures too close, or lash out and kick at his shins. It’s the little things he appreciates with Roach.

Geralt huffs a short laugh, but Jaskier never gets his answer.

* * *

Wintering in Kaer Morhen isn’t what he expected.

What he managed to lure out of Geralt once was that the Witchers return to their homesteads to rest and recuperate. Geralt assured him that Vesemir, a father-figure to the pups of the keep, would keep them busy with tasks and chores to be done around the place.

But it’s been a week, and all Geralt has done so far is eat and lounge and sleep.

Jaskier doesn’t complain. If Geralt eats and lounges and sleeps, that means he does too. He spends his days practically tied to the Witcher, never more than an arm’s reach away. Whether they’re in bed, tangled together and content, or walking the halls and the courtyards outside, Geralt keeps close.

Geralt is _softer_ in Kaer Morhen. And Jaskier is borderline freaked out by it.

It’s nice, don’t get him wrong. Watching the normally grumpy Witcher lounge about in a loose shirt and breeches for hours on end, never too far away from Jaskier and bundling him into an embrace whenever he draws too near, it’s nice. It’s just...odd.

Distantly, he wonders if this will all melt away once they leave the keep. When they step back out on to the Continent’s roads, will Geralt the Grump return? Possibly. So Jaskier bundles closer to the Witcher, eager to make the most of this while he can.

Geralt’s room is perched in one of the towers. It’s big, possibly bigger than any room Jaskier ever had as a child of a viscount. He’s told that the room originally belonged to one of the teachers in the keep. After the battle, when what pups remained returned to their home, they took ownership of the building and its history. Rooms that were occupied by their teachers – or tormentors, as Lambert grumbled under his breath one night, earning him a glare from Vesemir – now belonged to them. Vesemir, the elder Witcher, seemed to be the only kind soul up this high. Names that escape him might have been kind too, but Vesemir lingered in the lives of the pups. When he staggered out of the siege of the keep, he took it upon himself to shield and shroud the castle from prying eyes. Jaskier’s stomach churns at every mention of the attack. He can only imagine what it must have been like.

One night, when a storm rolls in from a nearby ridge and the winds howl outside, Jaskier shuffles closer to the Witcher in his bed. Geralt lies on his back, one arm pillowing his head while the other is curled around Jaskier’s shoulders, keeping him near. With linens and blankets pulled up to their shoulders, furs lining the foot of the bed, a hearth still crackling and glowing nearby, it’s easy to forget about the storm outside. Geralt is warm too. He’s Jaskier’s favourite way of staying warm. Even though the heart beneath his palm doesn’t beat as quickly as his, somehow Geralt’s body manages to retain enough heat for the both of them.

The Witcher stares at the rafters above them, regarding them quietly for a moment. The familiar fingers Jaskier has come to know skims his bare shoulders, tracing illegible patterns. It’s almost enough to lull him to sleep. But a deep rumble comes out of the depths of Geralt’s chest.

“Did I ever tell you how Witchers are made?”

The words take a moment to catch. Jaskier frowns – a soft thing, something that barely knits his brows together. He glances up at Geralt. He knows he’s asked before, in the early days of their travels together, and was shot down by Geralt’s usual glare.

He’s careful with his words now. Especially when Jaskier notices that Geralt isn’t looking at him. “No,” he mumbles. He’s torn. _You don’t have to tell me_ battling alongside a gentler side of him desperate to help Geralt process what he thinks about. There’s a maelstrom still waging behind those eyes. Jaskier can see it. His only wish is that he could try and temper the worst of it.

A long silent moment stretches out between them for a moment. Geralt’s fingers still brush the bard’s shoulders and the fire still crackles nearby.

Geralt’s jaw tightens.

And he tells him. He tells Jaskier everything. Even when his breath starts to hitch and thin, and the heart beneath the bard’s palm begins to quicken, he keeps going. Jaskier’s tongue sits heavily in his throat. _It’s alright,_ he wants to say. _You’re safe. I’m here._

He doesn’t cry. Tears don’t brim his eyes, but Jaskier gets the feeling that Geralt has probably cried himself dry years ago. There’s nothing left inside of him to expel – except for words. Words caught behind a clenched jaw and teeth and a soured scowling face.

For the first time, Jaskier realises how close he’s embedded himself into the Witcher’s life. They’re moulded together now, infused and entwining, unsure of where one ends and the other begins. He’s loved a fair number of people in all sorts of capacities, but no one – not even the Countess – has had this much of an effect on him.

When the words start to thin and fray, when Geralt has said all that he can, Jaskier leans up and presses a firm, assuring kiss to his cheek. He feels a breath hitch in the Witcher’s throat. “Thank you for telling me,” Jaskier mumbles against a stubble-prickled jaw. Geralt turns his head, catching Jaskier’s lips in a deep and desperate kiss. A grounding one. One that Jaskier pushes back against and lets Geralt know that he’s _here_ , with him, and that he’s safe with him.

The leave that story to that night. Jaskier knows what he needs to know and leaves the rest of it. Neither of them mentions his songs. He wouldn’t betray Geralt’s trust like that. But it does make all the times people hissed _monster_ and _mutant_ under their breath as they passed all the more vile. If those people knew—

When Jaskier wakes, the world outside is quiet. He wakes looking to the tall, lancet windows of the room, looking out on to a segment of forest that surrounds and shrouds the keep. Even though the winter has shorter days and longer nights, he has to wonder just how long he’s been asleep as watery, bright morning light stretch into the room and reach for the end of their bed.

A heavy arm is slung around his waist, not quite tight, but not loose either. Jaskier buries his smile into his pillow. Sleep lures him back under.

* * *

Geralt leaves most mornings. Whines catch in Jaskier’s throat, with some of them slipping through his lips on the occasional morning. Geralt slipping away from him is awful. Even though it’s only been a few days of their stay here, he’s gotten used to having the Witcher so close to him.

But eventually, Vesemir comes knocking.

Geralt buries his grumbled curse into the back of Jaskier’s neck. Three loud and echoing knocks, followed by a curt order to get up. “Not you, bard,” Vesemir calls through the heavy wood of the door.

Geralt pokes Jaskier’s side. “Enjoy your sleep,” he mutters under his breath before slipping away.

And Jaskier can’t go back to sleep. He’s gotten too used to having the Witcher curled around him. When sleep comes, it takes them both. And now here’s Vesemir, ruining all of it.

It’s far too much of an effort trying to roll on to his back, but he manages. Geralt’s side of the bed is still warm and, to Jaskier’s delight, still smells like him. He paws around for a pillow on the other side of the bed, dragging it over to huddle it against his chest. Towards the other end of the room, Geralt pads around. He’s pulled on his breeches already – sadly. Jaskier mourns the loss of sight of glorious bare thighs that he delights in having bracket him during the night.

Geralt eventually catches him watching. A small twitch to the corner of his lip is all Jaskier gets. “Some of us have to work, you know,” he offers simply. The mornings leave his voice deeper and more raspy than usual. And it rumbles through Jaskier’s whole body.

The bard lifts an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” he asks. “I’ll have you know that I’m seeing to that library Vesemir has. It’s in desperate need of a cleanup.”

Geralt huffs a short laugh. He pulls a loose shirt over his head, and Jaskier mourns the loss of the man’s bare chest too. “It’s hardly climbing on to the battlements to repoint stones.”

Jaskier hums. “True, true. I’ll leave that work to you and your brothers.” Because Jaskier can see himself tripping over something and falling down the length of the mountain, hitting every slope and jagged rock on the way down.

The Witcher stalks back to him, a small smile curling the corner of his lip. More or less dressed for the day, the next time he’ll be able to lure Geralt back to bed is in a number of hours once they’re full with dinner and warmed by the fire, finishing the last of a drink Lambert insists they end the days with. White Gull stays with the Witchers. The only ever time Jaskier tried it, much to the protest of Geralt, was a single small sip. And he’s never been near the stuff since. It’s too strong; rivalling the strength of the spirits brewed on the Skellige Isles.

Jaskier frees an arm from his cocoon of blankets and manages to grab the front of Geralt’s shirt when the Witcher bends down to kiss him. Geralt chuckles against Jaskier’s lips. The bard is always loath to let go of him in the mornings; maybe hoping that by running his tongue along the seams of their lips, deepening their kiss, Geralt would climb back into bed with him.

And for a moment, Geralt considers it.

* * *

Geralt stays away, much to Jaskier’s annoyance. _Fine_ , the walls of the keep have to be maintained. And Jaskier certain isn’t going to do it. He doesn’t even know where to start in repointing stones and making mortar. When he does eventually stagger out of bed and down the empty halls of the keep, his first point of call is the courtyard. The sun manages to break through the cloud today, offering some slight warmth against the wind.

In the wake of the storm, some looser stones have been knocked out of place. Jaskier squints against the sun, looking up to Geralt and Lambert hauling the last brick of limestone up on to the battlements. They work quietly, in-tune with each other about what needs to be done and who is to do it. Lambert slaps on freshly churned mortar while Geralt pulls the brick into place, setting and pressing it down. They’ll work like that for hours on end before the winds grow too much. Eventually, Jaskier will have his Witcher back.

He bundles the lapels of his jacket around himself. The wind is too much for him, even now. It’s shaking the last few webs of sleep out of him. A library buried somewhere in the keep calls out to him. Vesemir’s pride and joy, alongside the gardens and the apothecary lab the elder Witcher keeps in the higher floors of the castle. Stepping back inside, he’s thankful for the strong, sturdy walls around him, shielding him from the worst the season has to offer. Even in the early days of winter, the winds are already harsh and lashing. He can’t imagine what it will be like in a few weeks, when winter will have settled over them.

Vesemir meets him at the library. Jaskier watches the elder Witcher. He moves just as quietly and surely as his pups, but occasionally, Jaskier catches him wincing slightly when he reaches up too far. He sets his hands to the small of his back and flexes out, grunting at the slight click of joints.

Geralt is old. Jaskier isn’t sure _how_ old because Geralt has lost track of time. Apparently, every year just bleeds into the next and before long, so much time has passed it’s hard to know when something started and something ended. Jaskier can’t even imagine all of the life Vesemir has seen. He can see most of it on the man’s face. Wrinkles deeply set into his face and haunted eyes. Geralt has told him what he can about some of the ghosts of Kaer Morhen.

They must haunt the elder; the only one of them that spends all of his time here. Jaskier shadows Vesemir as they strip the shelves of every book, stacking them into neat piles, and set about dusting. Questions perch on the tip of his tongue. He suspects that it might be easier luring more answers out of the elder Witcher than Geralt. Although, Jaskier has been levelled by some pretty intense glares from Vesemir. Geralt had to learn how to glare from somewhere, he supposes.

The library will take them a few days to rebuild. Jaskier tries not to look at the fading names of each leather-bound tome he handles, but it’s difficult not to. Most of the gold-work has long since been smudged away. What any of these books are, he has no idea. He could ask Vesemir, he supposes, but the Witcher keeps to himself, darting in and out of shelves and restacking them. Eventually, he slips away to grab them something to eat.

Alone in the hallowed library, he stares up at the lanes of aisles, heavy with leather-bound books. Most of the dust has been cleared away, with most of it fanned out through the opened windows.

Vesemir returns with two plates of cured meat and slices of cheese. Jaskier sets down his pile of books, wiping his hands on the legs of his pants. “Thank you,” he offers the elder a small smile.

Vesemir waves his hand. “I can’t let you starve,” he reasons, sighing heavily as he falls into a chair. “Geralt wouldn’t be very happy with me if I did.”

A light laugh bubbles up through Jaskier’s throat. “He does like me alive,” he says, sitting down beside the Witcher. A small desk supporting the last of their stacks of books. They’ll have to come back in the following days to try and catalogue everything, but for now, he’s content to sit with Vesemir and nibble at what lunch the elder brought up for him.

A moment stretches out between them before Vesemir speaks again. “He likes you very much,” he hums, picking at a dried fig. The stores in the kitchen have been made strictly off-limits. The kitchen is Vesemir’s domain and that was the end of all of that – even when Lambert tried his apparent annual attempt to steal some snacks earlier on in the week.

Jaskier swallows. A piece of cured meat almost lodges in his throat, but he sets a hand against his chest and swallows thickly.

The elder sighs, keeping his eyes on his plate. “A Witcher works best when he is on his own,” Vesemir says. The words that flow out of him aren’t his own. Jaskier knows, narrowing his eyes slightly at how they’re sighed and lamented, as if Vesemir has said them again and again and again. He can only assume that he has.

But something else perches on the tip of the elder’s tongue. Something barely held back through his teeth.

When it manages to wrangle out of Vesemir’s throat, it’s quiet and mumbled. “But you’ve been good for him. And I appreciate that.”

Jaskier’s chest tightens. The elder Witcher doesn’t look at him; rather, he nods and returns to his lunch. The silence that settles over the both of them is deafening. Jaskier wonders if the Witcher can hear how quickly his heart is beating. He probably can, though he doesn’t say anything. _Thank the gods_.

Jaskier eats what he can, ignoring the tightening in his chest. He holds a special sort of reverence for Vesemir. The last teacher of Kaer Morhen, the eldest Witcher that Jaskier has met. And he’s the closest thing to family Geralt has. He might have been Geralt’s teacher at one point, but now, in the shadows cloaking the keep from prying eyes, he’s much more than that.

Jaskier’s throat bobs as the words from the elder Witcher sit with him. Vesemir finishes his lunch first, setting the plate to the side before standing with a slight grunt. Old bones groan and joints click and protest, but he’s still able to shake himself off of any lingering pains and walk back into the maze of aisles.

* * *

The forest that shrouds the keep from prying eyes is thick and dulls the worst of the winds. It’s clear of any monsters, which is a given considering of where it is. It’s been a long time since Jaskier has been able to walk through a forest with his shoulders lax and a carefree air about him. Too many days and nights spent travelling with Geralt have always kept him on edge; if not from monsters, then bandits and bigots. And Jaskier isn’t sure which is worse.

On one of the clearer days, they go for a walk. Worn paths embedded into the undergrowth wind around the mountain’s slopes. Most of them are hunting trails, while others are for the horses to stretch their legs out so they don’t freeze over. While the forest might be quiet and Jaskier might be able to breathe in as much fresh, crisp air as he can, he does regard Geralt for a moment; the Witcher keeping one of his hands perched on the top of his sword. It swings by his side, always sheathed, but he just likes bringing a blade just in case.

He likes walking with Geralt. On the path, the Witcher is ever-scowling and plotting out the quickest way to reach the next village or town before the sun sets or a nearby rainstorm rolls in. Now, with nothing to do and nothing for him to worry about, there’s a quiet moment when he looks up and watches the canopy stretch over them. A few beams of light break through and stretch down towards the forest floor, lighting their way. And the worn path takes them around a few slopes and towards a basin. A gentle fog sits over the water, barely touching it. Everything is so still and quiet.

They could spend the rest of their years up here. And they would, if not for a pesky thing called destiny always seemingly tugging at Geralt’s sleeve.

He doesn’t mention it up here. He doesn’t mention anything about Cintra or the child or anything else. Instead, Jaskier takes a measured breath and watches the water for a moment. At the first change in the wind, when clouds start shielding the sun and the air gets chillier, Geralt brings them away.

Their hands brush with each step they take. Within seconds of stepping out on to the paths, their footfalls fell into time with each other as they stroll towards the forest. Up here, on the mountain and away from prying eyes, Jaskier’s cheeks flush warm when their hands coil together. Fingers intertwined and palms flush against each other. Geralt’s skin feels so warm against his, chasing the worst of the chill away. Jaskier squeezes. And Geralt squeezes back. Even with the wind nipping, trying to chase them out of the forest and back towards the warm keep, Geralt brings Jaskier against his side, their hands swinging between them.

He tries not to tighten his grip when the keep comes back into view. If Geralt’s brothers are in the courtyard or Vesemir is nearby, watching some drills or fight practice, he doesn’t want to let go of Geralt just yet. He doesn’t have to. They spend so much of their time entangled in each other anyway. He wakes up and goes to sleep with the Witcher around him, and after dinner when their bellies are full and they’re warming themselves by the hearth in the great hall, Jaskier will stretch his legs over Geralt’s lap and burrow into his side. They’ve been seen close before. And Jaskier isn’t shy. But Geralt is. His cheeks colour and flush when Lambert makes his comments about _keeping themselves to their room_ , or when Eskel’s eyes linger a bit too long on them when they’re sitting close to each other. And Geralt just flees a room entirely whenever Vesemir calls Jaskier _Geralt’s bard_.

He loosens his grip, and it takes everything in him not to tighten it again. If Geralt wants to slip away, he can.

His breath catches when Geralt’s hand tightens around his, even when they start walking through the first battlements and walls of the keep. When they step into the courtyard, with Lambert and Eskel caught mid-practise, parrying against each other, Geralt pulls his bard closer. He lets go of Jaskier’s hand then, but only to curl an arm around the bard’s shoulders. Jaskier’s breath almost catches in his chest. But his arm lifts, curling around Geralt’s back and keeping him near. Geralt is familiar and warm and everything he ever needs; why let him drift away? How did he survive the winters apart? The thought of them has his throat bobbing.

* * *

Being this far down into the keep, he’d forgive himself to think that there is a world outside at all. A storm rolled in from the nearby ridge, cutting their day short. The sun never managed to break through the clouds in the morning; and that was the first sign. Vesemir stood at the keep’s main door, regarding the sky, while his pups trained and did their drills. Jaskier stood nearby, not really knowing what to do with himself when everyone else was busy.

He didn’t hear the roll of thunder, or the howl of wind.

But something in the air changed that had all of the Witchers turning their ears and eyes to the sky. Before he knew what was going on, Geralt’s arm wound around him and they were all but barricading themselves indoors.

It was an hour before the wind started to pick up.

Now, an undetermined amount of time later, Jaskier groans as he sinks into the warm, lapping waters of the underground springs. He has a small collection of oils and lotions and salves sitting on the edge of the bath, ready to be uncorked. But for now, he lets himself sink further down until the water laps at his chin, and his muscles tingle and relax as heat blooms through him.

The baths stretch out throughout the room, sitting in different tiers and heights, all moulded out of stone. Geralt told him of the baths, and a promised visit always sat on the tip of the Witcher’s tongue. But baths were kept to their room, just in case of any wandering eyes. Jaskier liked touching his Witcher on most occasions, but especially when he’s lounging and languid in a bath, willing to let the bard smooth sweet-smelling lotions and oils all over him.

But Eskel retired for the night and Lambert is drinking in the main hall with Vesemir, so they have the baths to themselves.

Jaskier spots Geralt resurfacing, wiping water back from his eyes and smoothening down his hair. The further into the bath you walk, the deeper it gets, until eventually, you have to drift and swim. Jaskier keeps himself to the edge of the pool, perched on one of the many ledges and benches carved into the sides. When his muscles and prone enough, he reaches for one of his vials perched on the ledge beside him. It’s one of complex glass work, plucked from a merchant’s stall in Redania. The liquid soap inside is sweet and smells like vanilla. It had cost him more gold than he was ever going to admit, but being on an Oxenfurt salary at the time helped.

He knows the instant Geralt has scented it when the man stiffens and casts a quiet look to the bard over his shoulder. The Witcher might be a cantankerous old bastard who keeps bathing to getting into a bath, washing off the worst of the dirt and monster guts, and getting out again; but time spent with Jaskier has made his senses soft. He likes smelling all sorts of scents on the bard’s skin. And Jaskier has spent enough time with Geralt to know what scents are his favourites.

He pours an ample palmful of soap on to his hand before slathering it over every stretch of skin he can find. Fresh water rushes in from higher tiers nearby, while any used water leaves through drains and flows down the slopes of the mountain. Jaskier cups a handful of water to pour over his shoulder when the Witcher drifts over and joins him.

Soft, plush lips press against his, and Jaskier’s thankful that he’s sitting on something, just because he isn’t sure that his legs would be sturdy enough to support him. Jaskier’s hands settle on to the Witcher’s chest, fingers splayed and feeling the muscle underneath his palms. After a moment, Jaskier hums. Begrudgingly, he has to push the Witcher back slightly. “I love you,” he hums, “but I do actually need to bathe.”

Geralt’s cheeks flush with colour. They always do whenever those particular words spill out from Jaskier’s lips. And the ensuing maelstrom of emotions storming behind golden eyes follows as he tries to wrestle his feelings into something manageable. Geralt hums – because that’s the only ever response Jaskier seems to get when he’s caught out by declarations of love, no matter how small or fleeting – and moves away. He doesn’t get very far, merely perching on the bench next to Jaskier and lounging in the lapping water.

Geralt’s nose wrinkles and flares as he scents the different soaps and oils and lotions Jaskier treats himself with. He’s learned to lessen the strengths of the scents; choosing things he knows Geralt likes, or won’t smell too strongly for the Witcher and his enhanced senses. He’s fond of sweet vanilla and the musk of desert roses.

After a moment, he realises Geralt has shuffled a bit closer. And under the water, a hand wanders and skims his upper thigh. Jaskier musters the best glower he can. “Geralt of Rivia, I swear,” he clicks his tongue.

Before he can gather anything else to say, strong arms coil around him and he’s lifted. Jaskier gasps, managing to thread his arms over the Witcher’s shoulders just in time for him to perch Jaskier on to his lap. The water ripples and sloshes, but eventually settles. Jaskier levels his Witcher with the sternest of looks. “Now what was all that for?” he asks. “I come here to relax and you have your brutish way with me.”

A chuckle rumbles out of the Witcher’s chest. Firm familiar hands settle on to Jaskier’s hips, holding and keeping him close. Not that Jaskier would think of going anywhere else. He’ll grumble and rolls his eyes at his Witcher’s antics, but he would spend the rest of the season exactly where he finds himself now. Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Honestly,” he sighs, “I can’t get a moment’s peace with you.”

“You shouldn’t have taken up with my invitation then,” Geralt rumbles, leaning up to lure a kiss out of Jaskier. The bard hums. Geralt is a good kisser. Jaskier has done the appropriate amount of research into the matter. He lifts his hands, framing the Witcher’s face and deepening the kiss. At the first swipe of his tongue along the seams of Geralt’s lips, they part and Jaskier’s core tightens and swells at the lure of Geralt’s tongue. The hands on his hips tighten, holding him closer and closer. Beneath him, Jaskier can feel the first small twitch of interest from the Witcher. Something that probably has been brewing ever since they both stepped into the baths.

Jaskier's hold on him tightens. Fingers card through the Witcher’s hair, tangling in the soaked soft strands and holding on. Geralt’s hips lift to roll against Jaskier’s. His breath catches in his throat. Jaskier pulls back from the Witcher’s lips, setting his forehead against Geralt’s. The lithe groan slipping out of him is thin and shaking. Tremors of pleasure shake through him.

Geralt’s lips go to his neck; dusting kisses along the ridge of his jaw and down the column of his throat. Jaskier lets his head roll to the side. The Witcher can do whatever he likes. At the first rasp of teeth, Jaskier’s arms tighten around the man’s shoulders. It’s a struggle to open his eyes. He wants to leave them closed and languish in the sensations lapping over him; the warmth from the bath, the lingering scents of oils and lotions, Geralt’s touch scalding every stretch of skin he can find.

But he opens them nonetheless and regards the portal leading into the baths for a moment. There’s no door, which could be a problem. If anyone were to pad down the stairs and step into the baths, he wouldn’t notice. Maybe Geralt would, with all of the enhanced senses he has. But he’s busy conducting an assault on Jaskier’s neck and hips. The Witcher’s fingers dig into the arches of his hips. Marks might be left. Jaskier’s breath shakes out of him. He wants marks. He wants to be littered in them. He can’t leave them on Geralt – his skin heals too quickly.

Jaskier’s fingers tighten in the Witcher’s hair. “Geralt,” he gasps at a particularly sharp rasp of teeth against his neck. The words are perched on the tip of his tongue. They should stop. Or at least pack it all up and scramble upstairs, to Geralt’s room. Jaskier would even make his peace with a room with a door. “Geralt—”

The Witcher hums. “They already know we’re together,” he rumbles. Geralt’s hips continue to roll up and against Jaskier’s. “And these walls have seen far too much over the years.”

He can only imagine. Some sour part of his mind wonders who else Geralt has brought up here. The gentler, calmer, more reassuring side whispers that from the surprised looks on Geralt’s brothers when they finally saw Jaskier, he must be the _only_ person Geralt has ever brought up here.

He can feel himself starting to fill. His core tightens and curls and Geralt’s touch scalds his skin. _Fine then_ , Jaskier huffs to himself. He isn’t shy. He doesn’t have that reputation at all.

He leans back, bringing his gaze back on to his Witcher’s familiar golden eyes. Jaskier frames his face and brings him back into a deep kiss. Geralt moans into it, and they rock together. Jaskier perched on top of him is one of his favourite sights. And Jaskier is quite fond of having his Witcher below him, in whatever capacity he can get him. Geralt is strong and can easily get out of any hold Jaskier tries to get on him; but knowing that he has a strong Witcher pliant and warm underneath him, it has his core tightening.

“Oh for fuck sake—”

A familiar voice lashes out through the baths. It echoes against the stone. Coldness washes over him as Jaskier lurches back from Geralt, not knowing whether to jump back into the deeper parts of the bath – and possibly try and drown himself at the humility of it all – or burrow into Geralt’s chest and hope that the bigger built man will be able to shield him from view of whoever has stumbled upon them.

Jaskier does manage to sneak a peek over Geralt’s shoulder, and his stomach sours at the sight of Lambert. _Of all people—_

Geralt’s growl clambers up his throat. “I held my tongue when you brought that Cat up here,” he rumbles over his shoulder, sending Lambert the most harrowing of glares. “And you two were _everywhere_.”

Lambert sets his jaw. An argument sits perched on the tip of his tongue for a moment before it’s swallowed. Clutching his spare change of clothes and his own vials of soaps to his chest, he storms out, grumbling something or other under his breath.

A deafening silence laps over them both. Jaskier blinks, trying to comprehend the maelstrom of events that just happened. Geralt turns back around, setting his back against the rim of the bath. They regard each other for a moment, before a laugh shakes up Jaskier’s throat.

He likes Geralt’s laugh. He didn’t hear it that often in the first few months of them knowing each other. The most he was ever gifted were quiet huffs at the end of stories – and Jaskier took them, because that’s all he was ever going to get. _Maybe the sacrifice for Witcher abilities is a sense of humour_ , he thought one night. But when the Witcher became more pliant and soft in his hands, more sounds were lured out of him. He remembers the first time he heard Geralt laugh; and he hasn’t stopped luring them out of him ever since.

Jaskier curls into him and Geralt holds him close as they laugh until tears sting Jaskier’s eyes. An _I Told You So_ perches on the tip of his tongue but doesn’t take flight. Once their giggles start to wisp away, and the silence laps back over them again, Jaskier pulls away just enough to look down at his Witcher’s face. His eyes are soft and a smile curls along his lips. Jaskier brushes the back of his finger over the man’s cheek. He likes this Geralt. Winter Geralt is fast becoming his favourite. He wonders vaguely about what will happen to the poor sod once they step back out on to the path for the year; will he disappear completely or will he only be seen in quieter moments, when Jaskier has Geralt to himself in tavern bedrooms and campfires out in the wilds?

He isn’t sure. But he’s excited to find out. Until then, Jaskier leans down and lures his Witcher into another languid kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs;  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter;  
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


End file.
